‘Very well. I do owe a debt to Mr Espinosa.’
‘And you would like to earn a sixpence.’
‘And I would like to earn a sixpence.’
He drops it in my palm then hands me his precious letter, biting his lip as if he is no more sure of my success than I am. Out here in the pinching wind he looks younger and less certain of himself than he generally does as master of Mr Tuffnell’s affairs.
‘Have confidence, Sir. I will put your letter in Captain Stiles’s hand myself, and Providence will go with me and bring me safely back again.’
I perceive a faint embarrassment in his features, but he is plainly relieved to hear me sound so confident. ‘When Providence has done so, be sure to come and find me. I’ll return to the warehouse after my appointment.’
***
By a wooden jetty on the opposite bank of the river stands a lean man in a dark brown coat that reaches to his ankles. He surveys the river broodingly, arms folded, eyes narrowed. He reminds me of a cormorant watching for its prey, or a hunched night-heron with a dagger beak: his nose is long and bony, and he wears his collar turned up against the cold.
Nearby a lad stacks crates ready for lading. I keep my voice low. ‘Is that Mr Gip?’
He nods. ‘Watch it, Miss, he has a temper.’ The lad sets down the crate he was carrying on his shoulder, and heads back for the next.
I pick my way down the jetty, wishing I had thought to wear my pattens. The mud sucks and clogs my feet with every step. ‘Sir?’ I try to sound at ease. ‘I was bid by Mr Wharton to take this to the Prudence.’
Mr Gip checks the seal of the letter, then looks me sourly up and down. His face is so gaunt I am conscious of his skull-bones. I wait for him to refuse to take me, but after a moment he pushes the letter back into my hand and nods at a row-boat tied at the foot of the jetty. A quantity of brackish water lies in the bottom, along with two bottles of liquor jammed in a wicker basket, a cask of wine, another basket full of dirty potatoes, and three items that alarm me though I pretend I do not see them. A cutlass and a pair of pistols.
‘Well?’ he asks.
Below us the boat bumps and thumps against the timbers. The gap with the jetty is wider than I would like. I hold up my skirts and try to look as if I climb into a long-boat every day.
‘I would be obliged if you could keep the rope taut, Sir.’
‘You mean the painter.’ He continues to hold the rope slack in his hand as if intent on vexing me. My descent is cumbersome; the ladder fixed to the jetty is wet and crusted with barnacles and I step with the utmost caution, being determined not to lose my shoes.
‘So. Another saved from drowning,’ he says drily, as I attain the boat and sink onto a bench. ‘You’ll have to use a rope-ladder to reach the ship. I hope you can do it in those clothes.’ He implies the absurdity of wearing a dress to go to sea.
Before I have time to answer Mr Gip leaps into the bows, making no use of the ladder nor taking any heed of my yelp as the boat lurches under his weight, then seizes the oars and begins to row with great energy, and in a moment we are free of the other long-boats crowding the riverbank and out in the harbour, the wind behind us and droplets of water flying in our faces from the motion of the oars and the slicing of the prow through the waves. The river is thick with vessels through which Mr Gip weaves skilfully, paddling first with one oar then the other to avoid the obstacles to our progress, until we reach a stretch of water free from shipping. On each side the city rises directly from the river, a jumble of low houses to the south, and to the north the view is crowded with church spires and market crosses and, towering over all, the pinnacles of the cathedral. There is so much to see I forget to be alarmed until a sudden wave rocks us sideways and I wonder how it would be if Mr Gip took it in his head to push me overboard, or a gust of wind capsized the craft. But I need not worry because Mr Gip shows not the smallest interest in me, and after a brief interval the Prudence looms up, and for the first time I feel sick not from the motion of the boat, or imaginary dangers, but at the real hazard I am about to face in scaling such a vessel.
Mr Gip stands the oars upright in the locks, and both of us contemplate the ladder dangling from the deck. It is made entirely of fraying rope.
‘I love to climb a tree,’ I reply, determined to deny Mr Gip the entertainment of seeing me afraid. Though a tree does not flap and twist like this ladder does. The first time I lunge for it the wind whips it out of reach.
‘Best tuck your skirts into your stockings,’ says Mr Gip with a leer. Reluctantly I follow this advice and gather my courage to catch hold of the rope. Providence arrives in the shape of a mariner who, noticing the long-boat, leans out from an upper deck and calls down through cupped hands.
‘Wait, Miss. We’ll fetch the steps.’ His head disappears, and no time he and a fellow crew member lower a stout wooden ladder over the side of the deck.
‘There, Miss. Keep a tight hold, and don’t look down.’
I tell myself I can climb a wooden ladder even if I must do it under the malicious eye of Mr Gip. Taking hold of the rungs and placing my feet on the lowest I focus on gaining the top as fast as possible. By dint of keeping my eyes on the step directly above I manage to quell the dizziness which would be fatal if it overcame me.
My palms are moist and my face must be pale, and truthfully, I could kneel and kiss the boards beneath my feet when I reach the deck, but the sailor kindly makes no remark on my trembling appearance as, very gentleman-like, he helps me down.
‘Welcome aboard, Miss. Bravely done.’
I wipe the sweat from my face and try in vain to smooth my hair which the breeze has tugged from under my cap. The ship’s timbers creak and the horizon shifts slowly as the vessel rides the swell. From the rigging a sailor watches me grip the balustrade as I try to find my balance. Such a man is braver and more agile than a steeplejack, and it makes me queasy to see him shin up even higher until he swings a leg over a cross-piece and begins rapidly to stitch some tear in the furled sail invisible to those below.
Dragging my eyes from the man perched high above our heads, I fumble for my letter. ‘I bring a message from Mr Wharton for your captain.’
‘Mr Wharton’s lucky to catch him, we set sail tomorrow. Captain Stiles is with his lieutenant below the quarter deck, if you care to come this way.’ The friendly mariner sets off towards the stern with the wide-legged gait I have observed among seamen, but he is nimble, being more accustomed to navigating the clutter of ropes and cleats than I am, and before I catch him up an old man with skin like greased leather staggers towards us, clutches my arm, and says, his breath hot and pungent:
‘You remind me of my little sweetheart what I never saw since I left Portsmouth in ‘83. She was a dainty blossom like you.’
My rescuer doubles back and yanks his hand away. ‘Let go of her, Mick—if the master sees you he’ll sentence you for being drunk on duty. Make yourself scarce until you’re sober, man. Excuse him, Miss, he’s not a bad fellow, only he likes his can of flip. Don’t mind all the noise, the shrouds are being readied and the bosun’s overseeing a last repair of the rigging.’ He gestures to the back of the ship, where tiered decks give way at last to one that is open, and overshadowed by a mast thick as my waist. ‘That’s the mizzenmast, Miss, what we call aft. Mind out, Miss.’ A length of massy timber swings across our path.
I have just recovered from the near-blow when two men barge past dragging a huge water cask, and another lumbers up with a hencoop on his back.
‘Is it always as busy as this?’ I ask my companion.
‘The day before sailing it is. How do?’ He salutes one of his fellows, a slight, beardless man in a black cap and breeches stiff with pitch.
‘Where are you sailing to, Sir?’ I ask, while my eyes are drawn to the rigging as the man with the cap swarms upwards like a squirrel.
‘Calabar, Miss. West coast of Africa. Did you note how low we sit? The hold is full of metal.’
‘Meta
l?’ I wonder how such a small, graceful ship contrives to stay afloat.
‘Your African prince is a great lover of things metal, Miss. Pewter bowls, pipe beads and bugle beads, copper and iron bars. And muskets and fuzees and blunderbusses, for use in their infernal wars. Six hundred tons we carried when we made the journey last year. And brought back three hundred hogsheads of sugar and two hundred of tobacco from the West Indies. She’s one of the tidiest vessels in Bristol, the Prudence, for her length.’
‘Whose ship is she, Sir?’
The question surprises him.
‘Mr James Tuffnell’s, of course. There are others in the consortium, but he’s the principal. You’ll know his name.’
‘I’ve heard it, Sir. Did another vessel bring his slaves ashore this week?’
‘Mr Tuffnell has shares in all sorts of business. I daresay he likes to import a few slaves now and then, when one of his ships sails from the Indies. He’s among Bristol’s most successful merchants, Mr Tuffnell. And his captain Mr Stiles is a shrewd master, as you’ll see when you meet him.’
‘I’m glad I met you first, Sir.’
He taps his nose good-humouredly. ‘Talk to old Wilks, Miss, for a sound education in all things concerning Bristol shipping. You’re from Salisbury, ain’t you?’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Can’t, Miss. I had you down as a Highland lass.’ His face is poker-straight. ‘I grew up near Chippenham, that’s how.’
‘I met some girls from Chippenham on my way to Bristol,’ I say, following him up a short flight of steps. The ship is finely carved, many of the decorations gaudily painted and some gilded. Everywhere smells powerfully of the sea, that rotten, salty tang I know from the quays; yet the ship itself is clean, her decks scrubbed and the glass in the cabin windows polished to a shine. ‘Miss Lamborne and her sister Jane—perhaps you know them?’ But Mr Wilks is intent on bringing me to his master, and without replying, he unfastens a studded door and shows me into a room panelled and furnished much as if we were on dry land, well-sized, with homely comforts and only the lowness of the ceiling hinting at our situation. A smell of brandy hangs in the air, along with beeswax and a whiff of mildew.
Two gentlemen are sitting at a table and barely glance up as we enter. A pair of heavy tomes lie open between them, and the walls are covered in sea charts. From his braided cap and epaulettes and serious air I take the elder man to be Captain Stiles, and it seems the other writes in one of the great volumes at his dictation. After a few minutes’ respectful listening to latitudes and leagues and forecasts, both of us standing with hands clasped, Mr Wilks clears his throat, prompting Captain Stiles to look up.
‘What?’ he barks.
‘Young lady from Mr Wharton, Sir,’ says Mr Wilks, ‘thank you, Sir,’ whereupon he retreats, drawing the door smartly shut behind him.
‘Well?’ Mr Stiles’s face indicates that he is far from impressed to find a female on board his vessel.
‘Letter for you, Sir.’ I present the item.
Captain Stiles pushes out his bottom lip. ‘It’s fortunate for you I’m not superstitious,’ he says, reaching for a pen-knife. ‘Ah well, I daresay Mr Wharton knows me to be a rational man.’
Humming genially, he prises up the seal and spreads the letter out. His breathing, silent at first, becomes faster as he scans the lines. Then he rubs his forehead and leans back in his red plush chair.
‘Sir?’ asks the lieutenant, whereupon the captain jerks upright.
‘That bastard Cheatley!’ he bursts out. ‘He’s altered the prices of his iron and pewter after lading. Blasted hypocrite! Son-of-a-bitch! To treat Mr Tuffnell with such contempt after all these years. Not to mention the rest of us.’ The enraged captain brings his fist down on the table, and the brandy glasses nearly topple with the force.
‘What reason does he give, Sir?’ asks the lieutenant. Judging by his smooth, pale chin he is young, though his wig and uniform lend authority to his appearance. The captain picks up the letter, his fingers trembling with rage.
‘“Fresh connections in London,”’ he recites. ‘Offering better terms, presumably, than Mr Tuffnell could six months ago when the deal was made. Damn the man, how are we to trade with the coast-tribes knowing we cannot make a profit?’
‘We could turn away some of the crew, Sir. One or two would be no loss.’
‘Mick, you mean? The rest are good men, and we need them on the Middle Passage. We can’t exercise the negroes without sufficient hands to sluice the decks and prevent them from rebellion. Blast Cheatley, I never trusted him. Here, girl.’ He scratches a hasty message on the reverse of the paper and folds it over. ‘Take this to Mr Tuffnell, and tell him he cannot be more enraged than I am.’ Before I have time to think of a reason why I would really rather not deliver a letter to Mr Tuffnell, the captain nods to the lieutenant to show me out.
Bless Mr Wilks, for he has stood nearby the captain’s cabin, chewing on a plug of tobacco and waiting to escort me to the ship’s side.
‘Thought I’d better cool my heels ‘til you was done, Miss. I’ll see you down the ladder, don’t doubt it. We won’t let you plummet off and drown in Bristol mud. Now where’s this meant for now?’ He peers at my letter.
‘Wine-street.’ I make sure to sound casual, though my heart patters at the thought of meeting Mr Tuffnell. He is sure to remember my outburst over his right-hand man.
‘Mr Tuffnell! You are a lucky maid. He’s thought a handsome fellow, though you are too late, you know. He was married a year ago or more.’
‘So I hear.’
‘To a beautiful young lady with pots of gold to add to his own. One of the richest couples in Bristol.’ The seaman chuckles, and I wonder what he would say if he knew the contents of Mr Wharton’s letter.
‘Can I ask, Mr Wilks, are the Tuffnells decent folk as well as rich?’
He stops, surprised, and the shadow of a seabird overhead crosses his face as he considers.
‘Christians, you mean? Well now, it’s said Mr Tuffnell ordered a new coach last month, reason being to carry him and his lady to church on dirty winter mornings.’
‘But I meant is he a good man? Is he kind?’
‘Too kind, some would say. He gave his wife a negro page-boy on her wedding day. Mr Tuffnell is famed for his devotion to his wife, you never saw such a liberal husband, folk say.’
I see I will get nowhere with Mr Wilks when it comes to an impartial judgment of Mr Tuffnell’s character.
‘Ah, I know how it is,’ he says, seeing my pursed lips. ‘You’re after a place in Bristol, and hope to work for rich folk.’
‘I don’t seek luxury, Mr Wilks. I only want to earn an honest living.’ And a little more besides, I add silently.
‘And where better to find it than Bristol? But as for Mr Tuffnell, don’t raise your hopes. Most of Bristol would like to work for him.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, indeed they would.’
Just as I feared, climbing down requires more care than climbing up, but I am growing used to ladders, and a few minutes finds me safely in the boat along with my resentful pilot Mr Gip, who points for me to sit behind him this time, no doubt to stop me talking. I am content to sit quiet, and with his back towards me am able to read the words scrawled by Captain Stiles on the outside of Mr Wharton’s letter. The ink is faint but I have no difficulty making out the inscription, though its meaning eludes me: Given our readiness for sailing, I enjoin you to say we will meet Mr C’s revised terms. Tight-packing will make up the shortfall.
I pull my cloak around me, cold after the fug of the captain’s cabin and my descent to the long-boat, and as we travel down the harbour and the city draws close, I ponder the captain’s words. Tight-packing. Surely with the Prudence ready to sail no cargo may added now. Yet what else can the captain mean? The mystery is beyond me to solve and I put it out of mind, concluding that I have no understanding or experience of sea-faring, and must assume these men know what they are abo
ut.
Back in harbour Mr Gip sits, his oars in the rowlocks, and watches me scale the jetty without offering his hand. His lip curls when I ask the way to Wine-street.
‘Wine-street? Your chance to find out if Mr Tuffnell is as handsome and charming as so many claim. You should have asked me; I’d tell you otherwise. But then.’ He gives a rasping cough and hawks into the water. ‘I have a low opinion of those who profit from the Atlantic trade without risking their lily-white skins. The merchants say it is they built Bristol. They forget whose labour they depend on.’ With a tar-blackened finger he prods his chest. ‘The likes of me. Off you go with your letter, you won’t see me again. Twelve months ‘til we return to port, and I’ll be dead by then. Blown up by pirates or struck down with bilious fever. Blasted bloody Mr Tuffnell. He knows no more about the sea than you do.’
Mr Gip unplugs his bottle and drinks a long draught of liquor, and I leave him muttering and cursing as I make my way to the city in search of Wine-street.
Needless to say I am glad to escape the malevolent skipper and relieved to find myself on dry land. And yet a part of me would thrill to be onboard a ship tonight, waiting to set sail. Not for Calabar, though—the West Indies.
Yet I shall never own enough to pay my passage to Jamaica, and it is useless—and painful—to dream of such a thing.
Chapter Twelve
Nearly hollow-bellied with hunger I stop at a cook-shop and use part of Mr Wharton’s sixpence to buy a helping of pease pudding and a slice of barley bread. Spying a row of steps encircling a market cross, I sit down to eat.
Captain Stiles did not trouble to re-seal Mr Wharton’s letter, being out of temper and in too much hurry to rid me from his ship. I cannot say precisely how it comes to pass, but as I take my first mouthful of pudding the letter falls open. Although I consider for a moment folding it again, I tell myself that reading it does no one any harm, and besides, the liberty is never likely to be discovered.
A Pair of Sharp Eyes Page 10